Raven's Daughter

By S. P. Hendrick

Jacynet Corbeau was a Bladeswoman, trained since childhood by the Raven Guild of the Blade and as skilled with a sword as any man. Donall was a Bard, steeped in song, history and legend, living in the shadow of a secret past. Escorting the future bride of the King’s son to her wedding sounded like a simple task, but they hadn’t reckoned with the treacherous Duke of Savonne whose lands they had to cross on the way to the wedding.

"Raven’s Daughter", by S. P. Hendrick, the author of "The Glastonbury Chronicles" and "Tales of the Dearg-Sidhe"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pendraig Publishing
• Release date: Oct 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781936922765

Book preview

DEDICATION

To Phil, my brother in steel:

An edge so keen it cannot be felt, and a swift, sure and steady hand to wield it. What more could anyone ask on either end of the bargain?

Peace, Anmchara. Serial Immortality. The wonder of it all, and the wisdom to enjoy the blessing. Play your harp as beautifully as you wield your sword, and let the true tale unfold.

****

CHAPTER ONE

Jacynet Corbeau sliced the air, the blade of her new sword flashing like silver lightning before her. She smiled, lapis-coloured eyes twinkling in delight as she tested the balance of the weapon in her gauntleted right hand. Perfect in every way, the balance, the length, right down to the crimson leather covering on the grip. It seemed to add to her subtle control of the blade; the sensuous power of the whole weapon heated her blood and made her long for the chance to draw it in earnest.

Across the white marble floor of the atrium she glided noiselessly except for the sound of the air being sliced by the sharp steel. Here she crouched, cat-like, this small figure dressed all in black; there she lunged and pounced, her long coppery hair tossing like the mane of a joyful horse running in the wind.

Well pleased she was with the blade. Gowan had outdone himself this time;

his craftsmanship could not be duplicated by any mortal. The stories of the pact he'd made with the Smith-God were certainly no rumours. Blades like this had an element of the divine forged into them, and as such must be propitiated; they had lives of their own and must be named. Yes, he had certainly outdone himself this time.

Her mood grew solemn as Jacynet removed the black leather gauntlet from her left hand and drew the blade's edge ever so lightly across her palm. She felt nothing, no pain, not even a tingle as the bright line of blood welled up against her pale pink flesh. Well done indeed. The blade was quickly blooded, smeared thoroughly with her own red life-juice, binding them together for all eternity.

I name thee Caw, for thou art the cry of the Raven Herself, Her song and Her warning, the lesson She teaches, and the price She exacts.

So saying, she slid the sword into the scabbard which hung at her side, crimson leather like the grip, but tooled all over with an intricate interlaced knotwork design. Her sword hand then free, Jacynet tugged at its gauntlet with her straight white teeth, loosening it enough to be able to thrust it beneath her left arm and pull it off. It dropped casually to the floor as she fumbled around in the black leather pouch at her side for the silver vial of all-heal which she carried with her always.

The liquid was thick and oily, of an indelicate yellowish-green hue which burned with a cold electric fire as it touched the self-inflicted wound. Jacynet did not flinch. A Bladeswoman was used to all-heal and knew that the three seconds of intense discomfort were well worth the price. She wiped the former gash upon her right sleeve and looked again at her hand; only a thin line, paler than the rest of her skin, remained to witness there had ever been a wound at all.

From the far corner of the room came the sound of applause. Jacynet started, spinning around to guard position, sword drawn and ready for defence, her whole body in feline readiness to spring at whatever the target might be.

The burley man in the corner of the atrium laughed heartily, the earthy rumbling of his laughter echoing from the highly polished marble walls and ceiling.

Sheath your claws, my kitten, he roared, although I see it is quite a formidable panther into which you've turned.

Gowan!

The smile was back upon her face as she put the sword away and half-ran across the room to greet the maker of her newly acquired most cherished possession.

You mustn't enter the room so quietly. You might have departed it permanently.

I had to see your reaction to your gift. Todor left with it in such a hurry to deliver it to you I never had a chance to tell him I wanted to deliver it in person.

Gift? The scabbard? But my friend, it is too beautiful. Such a lot of work, such artistry. If you ever get to old to strike the anvil you have leather craft to turn to. I must pay you for it.

He took her shoulders in his big calloused hands and held her gently at an arm's length, looking slightly down at her heart-shaped face, his smoke-grey eyes piercing hers with their intensity.

Not a coin will I take from you for the scabbard, nor for the blade, not even a coin that you might not cut yourself upon it, for you have already paid the blood price rightly as befits a Bladeswoman. Well blooded and well named, this Caw of yours.

But Gowan...

His hands grew tighter around her shoulders, his eyes more insistent, and it seemed to Jacynet that the big man trembled.

No arguments. I have watched you closely since your father died. I have known this day would come at last, known it would come and waited for it. When you described to me the sword of your dream, I knew the day was close at hand. You have been schooled and trained. You know the arts, all of them, healing as well as killing. You fight well, as did your father before you. All that remained was the one single blade for you to dream, the blade which would be the extension of yourself. It is my honour and my privilege, my duty and my right, to arm you with this.

His right. It was Jacynet's turn to tremble. The Laws of Honour had been well drilled into her mind. His duty. What had the old man hidden from her all these years?

There were only two classes of persons with the right and duty to arm a Bladeswoman. One of these was Bloodkin, a father, an uncle, or a brother. Gowan was none of these, of that Jacynet was certain. She was all that remained of her family. That left Bladekin, those bound by honour to aid the orphans of those they had killed.

She searched the eyes of the blacksmith, hoping somewhere in their depths to find an answer. She studied the old weathered face intensely, looking for a clue in the rough canyons and plains of flesh so tanned by the heat of the forge that they might themselves be the leather of her scabbard, tooled by the hand of the Forge Lord himself, but there was no sign, no trace of the secrets hidden in his mind. An excellent opponent he would have made against her battle skills, for his thoughts would not betray him and the depths of his eyes still held her fast.

At last she put the question into words.

Bladekin, then, are you? You claim that great debt of honour? You are and have always been dear to me, Gowan. My father held you to be his closest friend. I cannot believe you would have killed him. Besides, it is widely recounted how he died at the hands of the Duke of Savonne, a man of no honour who did not lift his heavy hand once to feed me or clothe me or school me in the year left to him before he too perished. His son, Avery, of course, was no better when the ducal coronet was placed upon his head. No, Gowan, it cannot be. If you wish to do this as a friend, then yes, for the sake of my father, I shall allow it. You've been like an uncle to me, and I could almost make a case for Bloodkin, but Bladekin? No, dear Gowan. No.

Her gaze was heavy upon him and he could no longer bear the weight of it. He lowered his grizzled head and shook it slightly. How like her father she was, shrewd and keen in battle, lithe and quick of body; Andre would have been proud of her. If only...

He dropped his hands from her shoulders, trying to weigh his next words before letting them fall. The sensation of her small strong hand against his huge palm made the ache he'd carried within himself for fifteen years almost unbearable. When he lifted his head once more the tears spilled from his eyes and ran in tiny rivulets down the his rough cheeks.

Gowan? What is it?

He had to tell her everything. For fifteen years the secret burden of his shame had weighed down every triumph, every success in his life, had eaten away at him, burrowing deeper and deeper into his heart.

Jacynet, he began in a low whisper, choking back the tears as best he could, what exactly did they tell you of your father's death?

Old pains, old wounds opened wounds which all-heal could not repair. Once again Jacynet was an eager student, her hair plaited like most of the ten-year old girls of Bailey's Keep who studied their lessons in the shadow of the old ruins of the former royal prison, abandoned since the time of Edric the Good. She remembered every moment of that day, the grey and white clouds which had mottled the sky and looked to her like armoured knights chasing a flock of stray sheep above the old prison itself. The chill of autumn had nipped the air, and she remembered how glad she'd been for the new green wool cloak she had worn that day.

Bind runes...that had been the day's lesson. The bind runes for healing and victory, two important spells for the children of the Raven Guild of the Blade, especially if they sought to become Bladesmen and Bladeswomen in their own rights, as most of them did. For some reason Jacynet had not been able to concentrate on the lesson that day. She had already been reprimanded twice by Mistress Ethel, once for getting tree sap in her hair. She could still smell the minty fragrance of the sap, sweet enough to use as incense, she had thought at the time. Oh how she had wanted to concentrate, wanted to succeed above all others in her class, to make her father especially proud, but her mind could not stick with anything.

Something was wrong, and she knew it. The uneasiness which had always preceded some sort of disaster had been distracting her all day. By the time the sound of the hoof beats had reached the ears of the others she had frozen into an almost trancelike state and wizened old Mistress Ethel had been forced to shake her like the branch of a tree to bring her back to consciousness.

What did you see? they had asked her, but she had not answered.

The rider had worn a black tunic and breeches and sat astride a black horse of unusual size. He had looked uncomfortably at the redheaded girl as he had dismounted and taken Mistress Ethel away to one side to speak with her in low tones. Then he had gotten back upon his horse and ridden off.

There will be no further class today. Mistress Ethel had announced her face pale. You are all dismissed except for my little Jacynet.

She had gotten herself into trouble again, of that she had been sure. The others had laughed at her as they skipped away.

Pay no attention to them, my poor dear, the old woman had said. You must come home with me tonight and I will make you hot spiced tea and oatcakes. Won't that be nice?

She had almost fallen into that trance again, her heart pounding. Jacynet had known her father was dead even before Mistress Ethel had spoken of it.

Jacynet, dear, oh this is hard.

He's dead, my father.

Interesting to look back at it now, thought Jacynet. The old woman hadn't been surprised at her knowledge.

How?

The pain had been too much for grief; only the heat of anger could cauterize the wound.

The Duke of Savonne. Your father had called him out on a point of honour about damming the river above the mill at Whitley's point. The river there does not run through his lands.

My father is the best Bladesman who ever lived. The Duke could not have bested him.

Your father was the best Bladesman who ever lived, but somehow the Duke was better.

Gowan watched as Jacynet returned from her memory, fresh tears upon her face making tracks not unlike those of his own.

Well?

He challenged the Duke about the restriction of water from lands below his by damming the river above the mill at a point which was not even upon his own lands. Hundreds of people would have starved. The Duke was just lucky with his sword, I suppose, and Father died. So did a lot of people, before the King made the ducal heir Avery take down the dam.

Gowan let out a painful sigh, one which seemed to have originated deep in the ground below him.

"Duke Adrian was not lucky. Your father's sword broke. It was flawed, bound to break sooner or later. It was as flawed as its maker, a man green to the craft, who took more pride in the gleam upon the outside of the metal than the soul of the blade itself. It was a pretty blade, but one with no heart, no soul. It should have been used upon the stage, that blade, in the hands of an actor who fought nothing more than a shower of rotten fruit, not in the hands of a true Bladesman such as your father.

It was my pride which begged him to take that evil weapon, to wear it, so I could swagger about in the tavern and brag ‘Look, the best of Bladesmen carries a sword made by Gowan.’ Gods Antlers! I might have had the whole Raven Guild commissioning their blades from me. Then how many deaths would have been upon my soul...not honourable deaths of those killed with my blades by their rightful owners, but the foolish deaths of those betrayed by their own blades and the hands which crafted them. I thank the Gods that it was only one life and not twenty, but I would give my own soul to have that one life back.

At length he laughed, short and ironic.

But now it is too late. I have already given my soul to the Forge Lord, that my blades may have souls of their own. I have often ranted and raged at Him that your father was an unwilling sacrifice to call me to His anvil, but He keeps reminding me that all who bear the blade are willing, or they would not be a part of the Raven Guild and subject to Her will.

Jacynet threw her arms around the blacksmith, kissing him lightly on the cheek. The salty tears were mingled with saltier sweat and a little soot.

"I will call you Uncle Gowan. It was Her will and His also that the sword broke. Of that I am certain. I would rather you Bloodkin than Bladekin, though by this sword Caw we are bound in both kinships. I know the salt of your body, whether tears, or sweat, or blood, is in this blade as the salt of my blood has consecrated it. I hold to you no debt for my father's death, but I swear upon this blade to which you have given life that I will avenge him upon the House of Savonne.

What man of honour would not have cried 'Hold' when he saw his opponent's sword broken, and given him at least yield-time, if not time to rearm? What man of honour would not obey the Law of Honour? Again I swear the House of Savonne shall fall upon this sword, and for the third and binding time I once more swear it. The injustice and dishonour visited upon my family by the House of Savonne shall be avenged by me and by this sword. So Mote It Be!

The echo of her voice thundered back at Jacynet from the walls and ceiling of the marble room.

"So Mote It Be!

****

CHAPTER TWO

It was some time before Jacynet felt like seeing another living soul. Gowan in his wisdom had left a few moments after the Bladeswoman's impassioned vow had been made, leaving her alone to centre herself. The reverberation still rang within her. As she had vowed, so must she do. Her life had forever been altered, and little shockwaves of her oath had already been sent rippling across time and space to touch the lives of the others who would be caught up in their wake.

Only partially aware of what she had unleashed, Jacynet walked silently through the atrium into the Guild Temple, its black marble interior contrasting mightily with the adjoining room. A thousand candles flickered against the blackness of the walls and high vaulted ceiling, reflecting, yet being swallowed by the darkness of the place. Niches in the wall were adorned with candle holders, some filled with burning tapers, others empty.

As she crossed the highly polished floor of the Temple in silence, Jacynet pulled Caw from its scabbard and saluted, then once again sheathed her weapon and backed up to pick up a candle from the shelf near the door. She walked to the dais in the centre of the Temple, upon which burned a flame of considerable size, and from this central fire ignited her candle, carrying it to the west side of the room. The flame burned almost a true yellow as she held it near the wall, her deep blue eyes searching for a familiar niche.

Over to the left...up a little...there it was. Andre Corbeau. That's all the inscription said, all it needed to say in the Temple of the Raven Guild. Nothing flattering, nothing historical. The man had lived and died with honour or his remains would not have been interred in this place.

Jacynet set the candle in its holder.

Well, Father, she whispered, So it has begun. I'm not sure of how or where I shall go from here. All that is certain within me is that the first step has been taken. I know She will see to it the next move comes. Now I know the truth, and I know you would not have seen poor Gowan suffer all these years for his small part in the matter. He has suffered already more than you did when Duke Adrian...

For the second time that evening tears came unbidden to her eyes. No, she mustn't cry again, not until her task was finished.

Father, I know you've forgiven him already. I have come to ask for your blessing at the beginning of this vengequest of mine. Of ours.

She knelt in silence for a moment or two before the candle. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, her awareness began to change. A cool prickly feeling began at the nape of her neck and rose rapidly over her entire scalp. The same sensation crawled over her forearms. She found her peripheral vision had become acute, as long as her eyes did not waver from staring straight ahead at the candle. The training was there. The images began to form to her right side; even against the blackness she could see the shape of a raven swoop down from high above her, almost reach the floor, then vanish. The cool prickly sensation turned to a positive chill and her whole body tensed as it passed over her.

Relax.

It was her father's voice, gentle and reassuring, just as it had been in Jacynet's memory, but it could not have been a voice; there was no other living being in the temple than her. Still, she obeyed, and the chill transformed into a rush of warmth which lightened her heart and her mood.

Yes, she had relaxed, relaxed into the coolness of thought and perception needed to ensure her success. A vengequest is born in the forge of passion, but it must be tempered in the cool wind of reason before it can take its final edge. The first rule of the Guild was Never fight in anger, for anger's slave is a fool. The mind must be clear that the body might live in the instant alone, not encumbered by past hatreds or future fears. Only then could it respond at its peak level to defend and make the best of opportunities to attack. A Bladesman or Bladeswoman would no more wield his or her cutlery in an emotional state than would a surgeon.

Her mind calm, Jacynet stood once more, nodded slightly at her father's crypt, then turned to leave the Temple, pausing at the threshold to salute once more with her sword.

The brightness of the atrium was harsh to eyes so recently adapted to darkness. The white marble glared at her, forcing her to squint. Her senses